The Star

Whatever 'tis, whose beauty here below
Attracts thee thus and makes thee stream and flow,
And wind and curl, and wink and smile,
Shifting thy gate and guile ;


Though thy close commerce nought at all imbars
My present search, for eagles eye not stars,
And still the lesser by the best
And highest good is blest ;


Yet, seeing all things that subsist and be,
Have their commissions from divinity,
And teach us duty, I will see
What man may learn from thee.


First, I am sure, the subject so respected
Is well dispos'd, for bodies once infected,
Deprav'd, or dead, can have with thee
No hold, nor sympathy.


Next, there's in it a restless, pure desire
And longing for thy bright and vital fire,
Desire that never will be quench'd,
Nor can be writh'd, nor wrench'd.


These are the magnets which so strongly move
And work all night upon thy light and love,
As beauteous shapes, we know not why,
Command and guide the eye.


For where desire, celestial, pure desire
Hath taken root, and grows, and doth not tire,
There God a commerce states, and sheds
His secret on their heads.


This is the heart he craves, and who so will
But give it him, and grudge not, he shall feel
That God is true, as herbs unseen
Put on their youth and green.

Henry Vaughan, Silex Scintillans (1650)

The World

I saw Eternity the other night,
Like a great ring of pure and endless light,
All calm, as it was bright ;
And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years,
Driv'n by the spheres
Like a vast shadow mov'd ; in which the world
And all her train were hurl'd.
The doting lover in his quaintest strain
Did there complain ;
Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights,
Wit's sour delights,
With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure,
Yet his dear treasure
All scatter'd lay, while he his eyes did pour
Upon a flow'r.


The darksome statesman hung with weights and woe,
Like a thick midnight-fog mov'd there so slow,
He did not stay, nor go ;
Condemning thoughts (like sad eclipses) scowl
Upon his soul,
And clouds of crying witnesses without
Pursued him with one shout.
Yet digg'd the mole, and lest his ways be found,
Work'd under ground,
Where he did clutch his prey; but one did see
That policy ;
Churches and altars fed him; perjuries
Were gnats and flies ;
It rain'd about him blood and tears, but he
Drank them as free.


The fearful miser on a heap of rust
Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust
His own hands with the dust,
Yet would not place one piece above, but lives
In fear of thieves ;
Thousands there were as frantic as himself,
And hugg'd each one his pelf ;
The downright epicure plac'd heav'n in sense,
And scorn'd pretence,
While others, slipp'd into a wide excess,
Said little less ;
The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave,
Who think them brave ;
And poor despised Truth sate counting by
Their victory.


Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing,
And sing, and weep, soar'd up into the ring ;
But most would use no wing.
O fools (said I) thus to prefer dark night
Before true light,
To live in grots and caves, and hate the day
Because it shews the way,
The way, which from this dead and dark abode
Leads up to God,
A way where you might tread the sun, and be
More bright than he.
But as I did their madness so discuss
One whisper'd thus,
"This ring the Bridegroom did for none provide,
But for his bride."

Henry Vaughan, Silex Scintillans (1650)

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